


Surfer's Blood: April - December

by ellievolia



Category: Captain America (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, F/M, M/M, No plot whatsoever, Slice of Life, Surfing, the Avengers as surfers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:52:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellievolia/pseuds/ellievolia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They say there isn’t much to say about the Avengers crew. A band of misfits, a group of polar opposites orbiting around each other, sometimes crashing into each other in an ocean of sparks and insults. But to say that’s all there is about them would be wrong; the passion they all share for the sport goes far beyond any frictions they can have. They’re all in this together, for better or worse, or whatever variation of clichés you want to use. Through the fights, and the bickering, the Avengers crew are a family, coming together thanks to surfing. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Avengers: the surfing crew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surfer's Blood: April - December

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a million to lanyon for support, as well as aliassmith and amcw177 for the help and handholding, and mariemjs for the excitement! My lovely armillarysphere looked this over for big errors, thank you! If there are brit spelling left in there, I am sorry, my bad - feel free to point them out for me.  
> This is most probably going to be part I of more. There is no plot, I apologise for this. It's. An exercise, of sorts. 
> 
> Italics are narratives from photojournalist James 'Bucky' Barnes, who followed the team for over a year in order to write his book, _Surfer's Blood_.

_They say there isn’t much to say about the Avengers crew. A band of misfits, a group of polar opposites orbiting around each other, sometimes crashing into each other in an ocean of sparks and insults. But to say that’s all there is about them would be wrong; the passion they all share for the sport goes far beyond any frictions they can have. They’re all in this together, for better or worse, or whatever variation of clichés you want to use. Through the fights, and the bickering, the Avengers crew are a family, coming together thanks to surfing._

;;

“Hey, brah,” Clint mutters, plopping himself down next to Bruce, brushing his still wet hands free from sand. “Did you hear we’re getting a new guy in?”

“Clint, you’re from Iowa, not Hawaii. And yes, I heard.”

“I surf; I’m allowed to sound like I’m high all the time. What do you know?”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to sound like an asshole all the time. I don’t know much, name’s Stark, he’s apparently filthy rich.”

“Is that why he’s coming in?”

Bruce shrugs, wiggling his bare toes in the sand. There’s a nice little breeze that smells of sea salt brushing over them, the Noumea late evening air not quite chilly yet. “Don’t know. Maybe?”

Clint makes a noise, not convinced that this news is a good one at all. Wait and see. He winces a little when he brings his knees to his chest, and Bruce gives him a sharp look. 

“Are you in pain?”

“It’s nothing, Bruce.”

“It’s never _nothing_ with you guys. Your tendency to ignore injuries until they’re career threatening is a really unbecoming trait, you know.” 

Bruce is the team’s physical therapist. He can’t help himself, Clint guesses, always poking and prodding at bruises and pains. It should make him a bit of a dick, but he is too nice for that, and he just cares too much. He wants to see them do well, and be healthy, and eat right, and it’s sweet rather than irritating.

There’s also the fact that Natasha would probably kill anyone who tried to get Bruce fired. 

“Fine. It just twinges a bit when I don’t stretch for a while.”

“Is it your soleus again?”

“Probably.” It’s an old injury, a tear in the muscle that haunts Clint at random times. It’s never fucked with his competitions, though, so he doesn’t complain about it too much. 

Bruce nods. “Okay. Let’s take a look at it tomorrow before training, all right?”

“Sure. What about some dinner now, though? Phil made his lasagne.”

Bruce starts grinning, brushing his hands against his shorts. “Let’s go, before Steve and Thor get to it.”

;;

Tony Stark comes with his own PA and butler, respectively Pepper and Jarvis. He’s loud, and obnoxious, wearing an expensive suit and some really bad facial hair, and yet, Bruce likes him from the get go. Flattery is the basest of human interactions, but it tends to work, and when they shake hands, Stark tells Bruce how much he liked Bruce’s book about surf therapy, and that’s enough. 

Jarvis and Phil hit it off immediately, Phil taking the butler through the habits and rules of the team house. Thor and Steve are pleasant enough, if only because they’re incapable of not being that way, while Clint doesn’t even turn up to greet their new member. 

Natasha, well. Natasha is not impressed. Bruce can see it in the tight set of her jaw when she shakes hands with Stark; she’s not one for bubbly and happy-go-lucky, but she’s also not one for that kind of obnoxiousness, Bruce would know. Thor’s loud, but genuine in a way that doesn’t even graze the edge of Stark’s public persona, very much on display in front of them right now. Thor also likes to consider Natasha as some kind of sister that he needs to protect, which used to drive her insane, until she got comfortable into it. 

Later, Bruce finds Natasha on the balcony of their room, sitting cross-legged on the sandy wood, and he joins her, sitting behind her, his legs spread around hers. Her hair smells of the ocean when he buries his nose into it, and he feels her sigh against him, her body relaxing into his touch. Her hands grip his calves and Bruce smiles when he kisses the nape of her neck.

“Okay?”

“I like Pepper,” Natasha murmurs, tilting his head to allow Bruce more space as he keeps kissing the curve of her shoulder, demanding in the way she moves, her curls brushing his cheek. 

“Well, that’s something,” he mumbles against her skin in answer, reassured when he sees her smiling. 

“You like him.”

“Hmm, yeah. Think he might be amusing. To be fair, I’d be surprised if you guys work together a lot. He’s probably going to be sent to the West Coast big press events with Thor for publicity money while you, Steve and Clint get the Asia tours for money prizes.”

“What about you?”

“I go where Fury and Coulson think I’m needed the most. So probably with you.”

Natasha turns in Bruce’s arms, the back of her hand against the nape of his neck when she pulls him into a kiss; almost every time she does that he quietly wonders to himself how he’s gotten so lucky. She never lets him ask, though – it’s something they’ve gone through before and won’t anymore, too settled in their relationship by now. 

“Sounds good,” she says, her hands framing his face. 

;;

“Can you tell me what you’re doing to my board, Steve?”

Steve looks up, different feelings crossing his face in rapid succession to settle on something akin to guilt. “I was waxing it.”

“You always forget spots on surfboards because you have feet holds. Have you forgotten rule number 1?” 

Natasha raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. Her wetsuit is rolled down to her hips, and even like this, small compared to Steve, she knows she makes an impression. Even after years of working with her team, even after years of being with Bruce, she kept her steely glare for moments like this one exactly. 

Not that she’s really mad at Steve, but he needs to be reminded, sometimes. 

“No touching other people’s surfboards, it’s like sharing a toothbrush or a dildo.”

Natasha can’t help but smile at the way he repeats the words – printed in 22 point font and stuck to the fridge inside the house – and blushes darkly, looking away from her. She moves closer, prying her board from his hands and cradling it under one arm. 

“Exactly. You keep on forgetting.”

He scratches the back of his neck, still obviously embarrassed, and Natasha grins, patting his shoulder with her free hand. “S’okay, Steve. Just don’t do it again.”

“Okay.”

;;

_Steve Rogers is not only exceedingly talented at windsurfing, he’s also one of those people that are inherently good to others. It’s almost infuriating, to watch him be this gentleman that will never try and ride on someone else’s wave, that will shake everyone’s hand, that will smile even at competitors’ successes. But it’s part of what makes him so enthralling, too, in and out of the water. On a longboard with the wind in his sail, he is unstoppable and he knows it; sometimes, the wind carries his laughter to the shore._

;; 

Bucky stands, one hand on his camera, the other fisted in the hem of his shirt, trying to determine whether this is the best angle he can find or not. From here he can see Clint in the waves, poking in and out of a tube, crouched low on his fish, very obviously having the time of his life. Bucky takes a breath, levels his camera to his eye, waits, waits, one second two, snaps a picture when Clint is almost out of the shot, the reassuring sound of the shutter closing and opening making him stop and breathe again. 

Looking at the shot; it’s not perfect. On the camera’s LCD screen, it’s a little off, the colors washed out, nothing he can’t filter and alter once on his Mac, but what he can’t change is how Clint is just out of Bucky’s preferred 1/3 composition. Clint, though, looks good; details always attract Bucky’s eye, and there he lingers on Clint’s back foot, pushing on his toes, the calf muscles taunt and defined; his hair plastered to his forehead with salt water, barely out of his eyes; one of his hands clenched into a fist, thumb covering his knuckles, the other open wide, fingertips grazing the wall of water by his side; his smile, big and bright while his eyes are focused, darker. 

Overall, it’s not bad for a one frame try – Bucky favors them to burst shoots anyway, even if they give him less of a range of pictures to choose from. This one picture can be reframed and altered enough to make it to the book, Bucky’s pretty sure. And that’s; that’s enough for him. 

It’s not all about art, and his integrity, it’s also about these people he’s been following around for close to a year now, that have now become his friends, and that continuously accept him in their tight group, show him what their culture is all about. They could have left him out, could have rendered his project helpless, but they didn’t. 

So it’s all that Bucky can do, to do them justice. They deserve his best. 

;;

Clint wakes up to a mouth on his lower stomach and a foot sliding between his calves, skin catching hairs, and he smiles, letting his eyes dropping closed again. Wind is blowing the flimsy curtains in his room inwards, the balcony doors open wide, which tell him that Phil has actually been awake for a while, probably drinking his morning coffee and reading the latest news on his iPad on the balcony before coming back to bed. 

Phil’s skin is warm when Clint drops a hand between his shoulder blades, relaxing into the pillows as Phil nips at the skin just over Clint’s bellybutton. “Awake now?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

Clint opens his eyes, looking down when Phil rests his chin on Clint’s stomach. Clint drags his hand to Phil’s cheek, resisting the temptation to muss his hair further. Clint takes pride in being the only person to see Phil like this, dishevelled and open like he never is when he is herding the crew around. For being surrounded by such a relaxed, laid-back community, Phil is very proper, always wearing button down shirts and slacks, even when padding barefoot in the sand, shoes in hand. 

“Competition day today,” Phil says softly, leaning down to kiss Clint again, just off his hipbone, nose pressing in the skin. 

“Mrrm, I was aware.”

Phil pushes the sheet off Clint’s legs, exposing him to the bright Brazilian morning, the sun playing with the curtains and the nooks and crannies on Phil’s face, elongating the shadow of his nose and making his eyes burn as he looks at Clint, once again taking him aback and apart in point two seconds. 

“Gonna keep quiet for me, Clint?”

They share a smile and a nod, and then Phil is looking away, licking a wet stripe down Clint’s cock, which is quickly getting on with the programme as Clint rolls his shoulders in the mattress, allowing Phil to press a hand against his stomach, keeping him firmly in place. Clint smiles to himself when Phil sucks the head of his cock into his mouth, palming the pillow on either side of his head. He’s incredibly comfortable here and now, Phil a warm weight next to him, mouth tight and hot and exactly the way Clint likes it, slow and a little teasing, a hint of teeth on the upstroke, everything to make Clint gasp, his hips moving on their own accord, his universe focusing on Phil and the two of them, fresh sheets and a hint of wind cooling sweat on his brow. 

If Phil was an asshole, he’d stop there and call Clint’s upcoming orgasm something to look forward to once he’s won, or at least did his best, but that’s the good thing about Phil – he’s the furthest thing from an asshole, and Clint loves him madly for it, loves how Phil makes sure that every competition day, Clint is as relaxed and loose as possible. Which means sex; Clint learned from an early age that orgasms were the best solution against stress, and now he has Phil, who, incredibly enough, agrees whole-heartedly. 

Phil, who is currently sucking Clint’s cock enthusiastically, the trace of a smile on his face that makes Clint shiver, hand reaching down to curl around the back of Phil’s neck, hips helplessly moving in rhythm with Phil’s mouth, tight around Clint’s erection, going deep and making Clint strangle himself on his next breath, upper body twisting in the sheets. He wants to _see_ , he wants to taste himself on Phil’s lips, he wants to come and he doesn’t want to, toes curling in the sheets and sweat rolling down his temples as his muscles tense and relax, Phil’s fingers digging in his thighs, ten points of contact that anchor Clint to the bed. 

Clint is faintly aware of the sounds he’s making, cut-off moans he’s muffling by biting the back of his hand, growls to urge Phil on, words that sound like _Phil_ and _God_ , too; he’s more attentive to the sounds Phil is making instead, the hums and moans as he licks up and down Clint’s cock, tongue swirling over the tip before he sucks back down, cheeks hollowing and the sun is hitting his face in all the best way, Clint can’t stop looking at how beautiful Phil looks right now, lips wrapped around Clint’s cock, rubbing himself against the off-white sheets because this, _this_ , Clint and his cock in Phil’s mouth is turning Phil on.

And that’s what makes Clint come – again. It’s the knowledge, the unspoken admission; the truth and trust between them. It sends Clint reeling, and he’s coming, his body taut like a bow, before melting in the mattress, spine gone liquid as Phil laps eagerly at Clint’s cock until Clint pulls him up, growling appreciatively as Phil fits himself against him, thrusting against the crease of Clint’s hip, the whole of him hot to the touch, moaning when Clint runs his hands up his sides, looking and sounding almost feverish when Clint kisses him. 

This Phil is only second to Clint’s favorite Phil (the one that lets Clint get away with murder and even cuddles him at night being at the very top of that list), and Clint makes the most of it; it never lasts, but for a few precious minutes, Phil is rutting against him, cheeks red with effort and sweat covering his skin, his noises barely controlled, Clint wraps his hand around Phil’s cock and he looks and looks and looks until Phil comes, tilting his head back as a hoarse cry escapes him. 

Clint can’t help the chuckle that bubbles up his throat when Phil falls on top of him, groaning softly as he hides his head in Clint’s neck, Clint’s fingers in his hair, petting more than anything else. He has no idea if he’ll get the use of his legs again, but he’s quite content with staying right where he is if needed. 

“So much for keeping quiet, huh.”

“Good thing I can still blame you.”

“I’ll take that.”

Phil moves just enough to brush a kiss on the underside of Clint’s jaw. “Good luck for this afternoon.” 

Clint squeezes Phil this tiny bit closer.

;;

Huntington Beach is not Phil’s favorite surfing spot, because it’s busy and louder – press doesn’t always like to travel outside of the US, but surfers do. The perfect spot; it’s like Nirvana, an impossibility they’ll keep on searching for until they die, and Phil, well. Phil will follow them right to that point and beyond. And if finding that spot also means being in places like Huntington Beach, California, Phil makes do. 

From his vantage point on the first floor balcony of the beach house Fury is renting for them, Phil can see Thor soaking up the attention he’s receiving from photographers and press. He’s eloquent, he’s beautiful, he’s photogenic, his smile is bright and genuine and invincible; it’s not only why they keep him around but it’s got a lot to do with it, since Natasha and Clint don’t do well with press. Thor is their front, the one seen in pictures and being interviewed; Steve a close second, when he allows it, which is fairly rare. 

But now they’ve also got Tony. Tony who is strangely just as good on a board as he is making minute adjustments to new designs, and likes to boast about all his accomplishments when the press is around. Tony, who’s got two faces – Phil likes the private persona better, much better, and it’s lucky that it’s what he gets when Tony walks out on the balcony to stand next to him, his hair still wet, his shorts sticking to his legs as he trails water along the wood. 

“Someone’s having fun,” he says lightly, looking down at Thor and Phil smiles indulgently. 

“He’s better at this, and training, than actual competitions.”

“Team is a healthy mix. Wonder where I stand.”

Phil turns towards Tony, licking his lips before straightening himself up. “For now, you stand outside, edging in, Tony. It’ll take time but you’ll fit in.”

Tony shrugs. “I don’t need to fit in,” he says, and it sounds almost petulant, but mostly, insincere. Phil smiles.

“Don’t you?”

;;

_The Avengers crew was turned on its head when Tony Stark was introduced to the crew. There were questions, why’s and how’s, but little by little, as Stark introduced helpful new board designs and won the Specialty Event in Waimea Bay, he actually became an integral part of the team as a surfer and a friend, a part of the dysfunctional, loving family that is this crew._


End file.
